


Pressed for Time

by apidologist



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Шерлок Холмс | Sherlock Holmes (TV 2013)
Genre: (sort of...) - Freeform, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, M/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 23:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3307478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apidologist/pseuds/apidologist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A certain filthy detective is 'tugged off' in a cab by his long-suffering companion. (What's new.) Yes, the title might be something of a bad pun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pressed for Time

“ _Chyort_ ,” Holmes hissed, fidgeting on the hard bench of our carriage. I sat with my hands folded in my lap, pressed against the door to avoid Holmes’ odd mannerisms. He removed his glasses for the third time since we were seated, polished them with a grimy triangle of his shirt that peeked out from under his ragged waistcoat, and unceremoniously jammed them back onto his nose. I marvelled that he had not yet needed to replace them in the time we have known one another.

He cursed again, bit his lips, scratched his ears, scuffed his shoes. I huffed softly. I may be a doctor, sworn to indiscriminately treat anyone in need, but I was rather enjoying Holmes’ misery and was perfectly content to let him writhe around a bit more before taking on the patient, so to speak. In any case, I don’t suppose Hippocrates or any of his students knew Sherlock Holmes personally – if they had, they would surely have made an exception.

As Holmes shuffled back into his own corner of the carriage and crossed his legs with a noise of frustration, I took pity on the man and rested a hand on his knee. His body tensed, eyes downcast.

“Holmes, er, is there – is there some trouble with the case? Excuse me, forgive me,” I apologised, removing my hand, “it’s only that you look, well, distracted, rather distraught, you see.”

“ _Idi na khuy!_ ”

I said nothing, but sharply rapped the handle of my umbrella against the roof, shouting for the cabby to stop immediately. Holmes may fidget and curse all he likes, but I would prefer walking home in the rain than stand to be verbally abused by this – this – _adolescent_.

I fumbled with the handle as we slowed to a halt, and as the door swung open with a loud creak, I shot a last look back at the ridiculous, ungrateful, _insufferable_ Holmes.

One shoe resting on the pavement outside, one still on the step, I paused. My eyes fell to Holmes’ lap, where he wrung his hands piteously. “ _Vozmi_ ,” I whispered. Either he was hiding another rat in his trousers and it was giving him more trouble than he’d bargained for (and it certainly wouldn’t be the first time, I am all too sorry to say), or was suffering a tumescence of a most extreme nature. His quick blush indicated to me that my latter suspicion was correct. I, on the other hand, blanched and gripped the door handle, averting my gaze from Holmes’ trousers and accidentally meeting his eyes. I opened my mouth to say something, to attempt to reassure him—

“Well, sir, are you on or off? Unless you can afford ta stand round wi’ one foot on the pavement all day, then I’ll stay put, just as it suits you, sir!”

I sighed at the cheeky cab driver. “I beg your pardon, I-I was just, ah, sorry, I was – I had an, um, errand, but I will be going straight to Baker Street after all, thank you.”

He took up the reigns and I sat heavily back, slamming the door as we jerked forward once more.

I scratched my left ankle with the toe of my right shoe. For a moment the only sounds were horses’ hooves on the cobbled streets and heavy rain on the roof of the carriage. Then Holmes cleared his throat, still pink from his neck up to his awful haircut. I didn’t have the patience to let him speak, defend his aroused state, make excuses for the hardened flesh straining against layers of fabric. I pulled the curtains shut and turned to face him.

“When I got out just now we were on Kennington Road. Traffic was slightly heavier than normal. I believe that gives us…15, perhaps 20 minutes at the very most.”

“Watson – John – what are you s—”

My umbrella fell with a clatter as I reached for Holmes’ knee, this time digging my nails into the wool rather than softly resting my hand. Holmes began breathing shallowly and his head fell back with a sharp knock against the wood. He groaned, as much in pain as in arousal.

“John, I can wait – when we get there – can do it myself, please, John, don’t embarrass me, it isn’t urgent!”

I slid my hand slowly up the length of his thigh, and his hips bucked upward, anticipating me, but I stopped before reaching his groin. He cursed, unsurprisingly.

“Holmes, it’s more embarrassing to watch your friend wriggle around in a cab until he spends himself fully clothed – not that I speak from experience. And you _will_ , if you carry on as you are, and I won’t hold my hat in front of the stain, either.” I rested my hand gently against his barely-contained prick and felt it twitch against my palm. I leaned in closer, pressing my lips to his ear. “I’m going to tug you off before we arrive at Baker Street. Then we will have tea by the fire. After that, I am going to take you upstairs and make you beg me to fuck you.”

A trickle of sweat appeared at Holmes’ temple and he screwed his eyes shut. “Oh god, anything, Watson, anything to rid me of this – fucking – pestilence!”

I unbuttoned his trousers without further ado. I then pulled aside his underclothes and released his cock, which brushed the lowest button of his waistcoat, or the place where the lowest button would be if it hadn’t been torn off during last week’s boxing practise. It is not very large at all, but stands perfectly upright and is prone to emitting rather an impressive amount of pre-ejaculatory fluid, for which Holmes was rather grateful if I chanced to give him these manual favours when there was nothing immediately at hand to make everything more…lubricious.

I stroked my fingers lightly along his shaft; he swore at my cold hands. I gripped him firmly – “ _mudak!_ ” – but he shuddered in pleasure all the same. Holding my grip and letting the bounce of carriage over cobblestones do the majority of the work, I tangled my other hand in his unwashed hair and pulling his head back to bare his throat. In all honesty, kissing Sherlock Holmes’ face is not the pleasantest thing. He responds to me in the same manner in which I have seen him react to a spider dangling from the frame of his spectacles, and I am always distracted by the deplorable state of his meagre facial hair – hence our mutual preference for the throat. I teased below his ear whilst twisting his hair, then licked and sucked beneath his Adam’s apple, grazing my teeth on his soft, flushed skin.

“ _Bozhe moy_ , Watson, _do_ something!”

“Holmes, if I do anything now, it’ll be over in ten seconds. We have…let’s see…at least 12 minutes, unless the cabby can levitate us home.”

His eyebrows knitted together in a mixture of exasperation and desperation. I wanted to see Holmes to a quick finish just as much as he did, but my streak of mercilessness returned in full force. My fingers reverted to their feather-light ministrations and I spent half of our remaining time whispering further details of my plans for the afternoon, lips pressed against Holmes’ ear. He, in return, moaned softly and said some frankly indecent things about my hands and what he hoped I would do with them.

With six minutes left, I held both of Holmes’ hands in my own and leaned over his lap to breathe hotly against the head of his cock. He whimpered. I pressed my tongue against his slit, catching some of the fluid which threatened to trickle down his length, then took the head in my mouth, sucking hard. He stifled a shout. His hips shifted and his hands strained to break free of mine; he was desperate to fuck my mouth, but I tightened my grip and sucked all the harder.

I managed to check my watch from that rather awkward position. Four and a half minutes.

Sitting up again, I spat into my hand to ease the way (disgusting, not to mention unhygienic, but Holmes certainly wouldn’t complain) and grasped his prick once more, sliding my hand slowly down his length and watching the foreskin slide over the head, returning on the upstroke. I pumped him in time with a resting heartbeat, an imagined one, as neither of us was in a state I would categorise as ‘calm’. His breath grew more and more ragged.

Two minutes remaining. “Please, please, _please_ ,” Holmes repeated in torment.

I quickened my movements to match the rhythm of my heartbeat, then increased it to Holmes’, which I could feel through his wrist which I still held pinned. He gasped, then tensed – as I released my hold on his hand and felt in my pockets, I rubbed my thumb over his wet head, and his hips jerked upwards as if pulled by marionette strings. “W-wats— _Watson!!_ ” His cock twitched violently with the force of his ejaculation, and I sighed with relief at having produced my handkerchief in time.

Holmes just managed to recover his senses as we came round the familiar corner and slowed to a halt, left wheel grinding unpleasantly against the kerb. I returned the soiled handkerchief to my pocket, praying that I would remember to clean it before I next needed to blow my nose. I alighted and with a smirk, held my hand out to Holmes, red and panting, glasses fogging in the cold air. After throwing the required change to our cabby, I supported Holmes on his wobbling legs through the front door and placed him in an armchair.  After a restorative cup of tea, he might begin to return the favour.

**Author's Note:**

> If any Russian speakers have something to say about my not-very-extensive cursing vocabulary, criticism is welcome.


End file.
